Special K
by Caturday
Summary: Pervert, Hopeless, Dreamer In The Attic. Kenny went by many names. But now someone tries to dig beneath his many husks and, for the first time, brings out the one he truly wants to be.
1. Prologue

_Special K_

_A/N: I wasn't supposed to post this yet, because I like to have stuff finished before ever showing it. Been at this for months, trying EVERYTHING to spur me to continue. But I cracked. 20K words down, 30k to go.  
__This prologue comes with no guarantees. I have the next chapters ready, but might take a LONG time to update. Summary is subject to change; title... isn't.  
__Hopefully posting this will force me to get writing. Now to force you to read..._

* * *

_Just like I swallowed half my stash  
__I never ever want to crash_

_Prologue_

You've seen the movies. Those chick-flicks your friends like to crack down on, but will storm at like hyenas the moment they show up at the video store. They're always the same: She is a well-mannered, innocent beauty; he is a rebellious, grungy kind of gorgeous. Two so different, no sort of connection should ever be possible. A script defying all odds; all logic. A hopeless romantic's tale of fools in love.

But you are no fool. No, nobody that would ever call you foolish. Your friends seek you out with their problems with a reason. You are the responsible one; the discrete one. You will never let your emotions deter you from doing what's right. And nobody, especially not some boy, will ever sweep you off your feet.

So tell me, dear Wendy, why you think of him. Why do you allow your mind to wander, ever more often, to him? Is it because you are ahead of the class? Is boredom why you glance sideways, to see if he's paying attention or simply scratching genitals into his desk? Why does Heidi claim you blushed when she called you on this? Enlighten me, for I grasp in darkness: Why does your train of thoughts break whenever Kenny's name is dropped?

Oh, I'm sure there's a reason. Rationalization, after all, is your stock and trade. You believe in equal chances for all. You feel that every mouth deserves to be fed, and for this you fight. It's not him: you would never allow any girl to be abused, or any boy to be malnourished.

And you know that Kenny is not merely malnourished, but downright neglected. Surely you remember your volunteering at the shelter over the holidays. You recall Kenny coming in that day, holding those stamps in a pelted fist. You ducked away, observing the scene from beneath the counter. Did you feel pity, when Kenny had to practically beg the clerk to accept his coupons? You must not blame the man, of course: He shouldn't cater to children asking for food, for how would he know those poor souls are being taken care of at all? No, you must only be glad that he felt the same as you did, and in the end furtively handed Kenny his box of supplies.

So it makes sense, then. You are simply watching out for Kenny McCormick, like a guardian angel without wings. Silent perhaps, but no less valiant. Your feelings towards him are simply concern for his well-being, not some cheesy romance-to-be. After all, if you didn't feel for him, who would?

The wind howls like a pack of starving wolves, and you are tucked safely beneath your blanket. But as you clutch to your book as if its pages contain the last warmth on earth, you're picturing him. Explain, Wendy. Romance novels are written to awaken ardor. But in yours, the appearance of the male protagonist is nothing like the dirty blonde. Yet there he is, parading in your mind as if he owns the place. Do you deny that the boy doesn't at the very least intrigue you?

But have no fear, young romantic, and sweet dreams. Because Kenny, grieving in the tempest your stalwart home shields you from, is also thinking of you.

And soon, you won't just be watching him.


	2. Too busy dying again

_Chapter one: Too busy dying again_

_AN: Ah, the first chapter (2742 words). Maybe the plot (what there is of it) starts up a bit slowly in favor of purpleness. If so, I do apologize. Hopefully I can hook you into reading with some witty banter instead (or clever author's notes). Otherwise, just try to enjoy. And please don't get confused by the story title yet. It will become clear... hopefully._

**DISCLAIMER:** Undo safety switch before use. Aim away from the head.

* * *

It was the wind again. It never failed. Five thirty in the morning. Nails of wind, cold as death, creeping through creaks into the attic. A stirring beneath a tattered blanket, then another. A frustrated groan and a shifting of cloth, and a boy emerging from his bed. Eyes fluttering pointlessly through the darkness, he cursed the wind for tearing him from his dreams.

Sensing his way through the black, he found the clothes that cover his frame. A hoodie, its orange cloaked by yesterday's dirt, assuming the color of smoldering embers. Jeans of a tattered fabric, holes at the knees a reminder of their previous owner.

Alone, the boy would be sitting at the breakfast table, fooling himself into believing his meal was something it was not- edible. He would imagine the whiff of steaming pancakes, doused in ample syrup. He would try to solidify their taste as frozen milk lashed at his throat, triggering an inevitable frostbite.

He glanced at the only photograph in the room. The frame kept two muddy boys, shoulder-to-shoulder and smiling broadly, the smaller of them presenting a gigantic fish. Glancing at the photo, Kenny took a letter from his front pocket. He read the words he knew by heart, and it was with effort that he kept himself from shaking.

Pounding on the door. Loud pounding. Sound that nobody but the most inconsiderate of bastards would let ring at this early hour. Kenny ruffed, put back the latter and tapped it, then answered the noise. He was instantly greeted with a "morning asshole,"

He gave his burly guest a shove. "Keep it down, Cartman. My sister's still asleep."

The visitor's features contorted as he walked in, as if the smell of this home was too horrid for him to keep a straight face. "The fuck dude. She still has the AIDS or what?"

"Shut the hell up, fatass. That isn't funny."

"Sure it is," Cartman eyes darted for things to insult the tenant with, "just not _as _funny as, say, the holocaust," he proceeded to snicker like a broken record plate. "Good times, man. Good times."

Kenny jerked away and grabbed from the corner of the room his backpack, the smears and tears of which were sloppily patched. "Don't jizz yourself over it," he opened the bag and selected his books.

Cartman halted at the cupboard, opening and closing its doors with considerate force, intent on having them come loose. As he did he hummed. "_Kenny thinks he's tough but he's hella underfed, livin' on a junkyard with a dead girl in his bed, In the ghettoo-_" his drawling 'o' was cut short by the momentum of a trigonometry book.

"Fuck's sake skank," Cartman rubbed his redding cheek, "forget about your ride then, ungrateful bastard," and he gruffed back to the door.

"Do that, and I'll tell the principal who it really was that wrecked her office," Kenny bend over to pick up his book, pushing Cartman out of the way.

Cartman huffed. "Make my day. Bitch ain't got nothing on me," but he made no further steps towards the exit.

His shoes had barely more substance than a pair of slippers. He wrapped on a flimsy jacket before he ushered outside. They sat down in Cartman's car, a birthday present from his mommy. The ogre turned the radio to max volume and sped off, making sufficient noise to wake up everyone in the vicinity.

"Dude, you want to skip first period and have a smoke?" Eric had to yell to be heard over the aggression from the boombox.

Kenny leaned hard into his seat, getting as far from the speakers as he could. "No way. I have to at least _try_ to visit some classes, or I'll be expelled."

"It's only history. You're never going to pass it anyway. That teacher totally hates your guts."

"I'm not skipping," Kenny punched at the radio to turn it off. "You go ahead if you think that makes you cool."

"Woah, did they nail your ass another chastity ring?" Cartman rolled his eyes, tearing them from the road they should be focused on. "'_I'm not skipping_'. Bitch shows up for two classes a week but oh no, he's not skipping."

"I have my stuff to do, fatass. Unlike you, I still have some goddamn ambition."

"I don't know what your poor-ass parents taught you," Cartman stepped on the gas and they sped up, Kenny's skull slamming against the headrest because of it, "but huffing paint and jacking it to Penthouse – not ambition."

"Go die somewhere," Kenny cast his gaze towards the window, meaning to spend the rest of the car ride in silence.

Cartman double-parking his wheels surely would have ignited the junior girl driving right behind them, if it wasn't for the fact that Eric Cartman was the biggest, meanest looking senior around. Easily over two-hundred pounds, he sported a studded biker jacket and skull rings with several dents. His massive frame was emphasized all the more by the skinny kid trodding next to him. Understandably, the girl decided she might as well take the spot a few yards over.

Eric grunted a "see you at recess" and walked off to the back, where he would go and poison his lungs while Kenny sat in history class.

It actually was his favorite subject. No, you wouldn't expect Kenny to have a 'favorite subject', but he did. That wasn't, mind you, because his teacher was such a charmer. Eric was right: The gent _did_ hate him.

"Mr. McCormick, can you tell me why the liberals thought the working classes _deserved_ to be exploited?"

Way in the back of class, Kenny's attempts to blend in with the many propaganda posters along the walls seemed to have failed. The teacher spot him, and proceeded to assault him with the kind of question that will get you lynched in the bigger part of the world.

What was there to say?

"No, sir," Kenny admitted softly.

"I see," an indulged smile played on teacher's lips, "I suppose you were too busy _dying _again to learn your history, Mr. McCormick." He chuckled at his own joke.

The girl a seat in front dared attack the comment. "Mr. Locke, I ought to inform you that your question hints of political bias, and should be rephrased."

The teacher jumped, as if somebody had thrown a brick at him. The accuser took a deep breath and continued. "Furthermore, Kenny's special conditionhas been acknowledged by the board, and is not to be subject to skepticism."

As she let out a self-righteous puff, Locke gathered himself. "Of course," he muttered, turning his back to the chalkboard and intently glaring into the field of students. "I suppose that maybe you and _Kenny, _could explain that to the _principal_, Miss Testaburger."

"Excuse me?"

The teacher lifted himself with all the authority he could muster. Which, admittedly, was an impressive amount. "I will not allow anyone to interrupt my class, _or_ lecture me on matters they hold no say over. Not even you, Wendy. Go!"

Wendy rose, fighting the urge to shrink away from Locke's compelling stance in favor of opposing this injustice. However, when she realized Kenny was packing his books and about to stomp out, she decided to follow suit.

Once they were out in the hallway, Kenny spun towards her. "Great going, Gandhi. Now you got us kicked out."

Wendy flinched backwards, the nicks of outrage deepening on her visage. "Take it out on me, why don't you?" she slightly spread her arms, palms pointing to the ground. "I'm on _your_ side. That man has no right to single you out like that. It isn't fair."

"Shock to you, sugar pie, but life isn't fair. It never has and it never will be. Accepting that tends to take the edge off it."

Her features recoiling, the girl was left with parted lips and uncertain breathing. "Well, we better just head to the principal's then."

"You go," Kenny grunted, "I'm out of here."

"No you're _not,_" she grabbed the escapee by the sleeve. "You're going there and you're going to tell her about this."

"Why the hell would you care?"

"Because I do," she defended simply.

"No you don't," Kenny shook his arm to make the girl let go. "I know this trick. You need a bad guy so _you_ won't take the heat."

As she considered this, Kenny broke free of the hold and sped off.

He escaped through the back door and met up Cartman, who was smoking well enough alone. When he saw Kenny he grinned. "Well well well. Glad to see you came to your senses."

"Yeah whatever," Kenny shrugged, and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket.

Kenny McCormick had his first cigarette at age six, when he stole one out of his brother's coat and managed to light it. Kevin had been furious, earning the infant a bleeding skull. He gave it another try at age eight, but when the entire town raised Cain over it he was quick to stop. Then, at twelve years old, Cartman had confronted him, and had practically been jamming cigarettes down his throat till he was addicted to the habit.

Nowadays, it was only natural. Smokers were outcasts, and outcasts were smokers. His fingers were black and withered anyway, and the sight of a cigarette between them just felt... right.

"What made you come out here, anyway?"

Kenny looked up from his stick, glancing at the mass of lard sticking to the wall. "That bitch Testaburger, man. Threw this hissy-fit right in the classroom which got me kicked out."

Cartman gave a snicker, dropped his cigarette and jammed his foot on top of it. "I hate that slut. You watch yourself, po'boy," he gave the other a warning finger, "she's totally wet to have you."

"Fuck no."

"Fuck yeah. Just you wait. She'll get you," Cartman lunged himself forward, mimicking a sudden abduction, "and before you know it you're the new posterboy for some kind of ghetto awareness rally."

"Sounds fun," Kenny interjected sardonically, his brow knitted to deeper pondering.

"Like hell it is," Cartman leaned back into the wall, sparking up another cig. "Being Wendy's new project. I'd rather suck Heidi Turner's saggy tits."

"You'd be sucking those right now if it wasn't for your girlfriend."

"Yeah right," Cartman shot. "Tramp can kiss my black ass. I told her, if I want to bang other ladies, she better not call a squirt of shit on it. We agreed on that."

"Because she knows no other girl will ever have you, fat-for-brains."

Cartman teared open his jaw, but was interrupted by a weak ringing. The bell above them used to out an ear-splitting noise like oncoming apocalypse, until Cartman got fed up with it and smashed the thing to pieces. Now, a pitiful whine was the only thing to signal them for recess.

Soon the rusted backdoor swung open and let out a third boy. We know him as Draik, last survivor of the former 'Goth Kids' (bringing a gallon of vodka to a drive-in cinema in Denver is _totally_ nonconformist. It is also stupid). Draik had quit using red dye on everything he owned, but still abhorred getting a haircut. His greeting to the others was minimal, and with an audible moan he sat down on the garbage container stacked against the wall.

The amino of the forth smoker was far better. He walked onto the lot, grinning broadly from beneath his navy chullo, and gleefully nodded at the three. "Dude," he addressed the orange, "Wait till you see what Rebecca's wearing today. She'll be here to check out Stan's new wheels, and she's looking _fine._"

Cartman raised an eyebrow. "That's what you're so faggy about, Craig? Fuck, how sex-depraved are you?"

Craig raised a finger at the tub of lard, then shot both hands in the pockets of his coalblack jeans, practically skipping on the spot. "No it's not, fatass. I'm happy because I got decked with detention, and I have this badass firecracker with 'mischief' written all over it," he lifted a lighter from either pocket and flicked them both, judging which one cast the larger flame. "Any of you losers doing time too? You'll have to check this shit out."

Draik took a long drag from his own cigarette, his eyes never flickering. "Not me. No way will the Machine trap _me _into its thought control."

"I'll act like I know what the hell you're saying. Kenny, you?"

"Maybe. Depends on what went down at-" he was cut off as Craig threw the more violent lighter on the floor, where it shattered with a bang.

Cartman lifted his head, puffing out his cloud of smoke. "Well look there. There comes Fags Incorporated now."

They all turned to see a large group of peers coming around the building. It was Stan and Kyle walking the front, alongside Token, who was liked for his charisma and ample money. Right behind, a large flock of girls, including Bebe, Rebecca and Wendy. On the outskirts were Clyde, Tweek and Jimmy, happy as pumpkins they were allowed to hang with these most splendid of chums.

Of course, noticing the spot of green looked at peace, Cartman had to step up; he had to yell, in his most burly tone: "Oh snap. Somebody call Hitler. I think I've spotted another one!"

While his friends were more than willing to step up, Kyle, the jewish compadre, remained stoic. He never even looked for the source of the insult, knowing full well what he would see. Cartman never relented, making snides about grandma Broflovski's gassed body being violated by dogs (a thing which, regrettably, did happen).

Craig patted Kenny on the elbow and pointed somewhere in the passing group. The other howled; wheezed like a dog in heat. Falling on his iris was Rebecca, or Red, no doubt the hotter girl of the group, dressed in her new, semi-revealing purple tank-top and fur-lined skirt.

"What'd I tell ya," Craig puffed, "I'd sure like a piece of that."

"Hell yeah," Kenny chimed in, "I know what I'm jerking it to tonight."

Draik blew a puff of smoke onto the others' faces. "Get real," he moaned, "skimpy clothes are just another tool for the Machine to get to you."

"The Machine can bite me," Kenny declared, "and so can she. I like it kinky."

Cartman had moved on to insulting the Jew's ex-girlfriend. Kyle still didn't get visibly worked up, but Token and Stan were still taking the precaution of restraining him. Behind, sun-blonde vixen Bebe was berating her firehead gal-pal for being too sexually liberated, raven Wendy nodding in half-agreement.

"One day," Kyle omened, "one day he will get what's coming for him."

Stan led the lot back inside, keeping a grip on his buddy's shoulders. In his calm, almost hypnotic tone he helped his friend keep his cool. "Just don't let him get to you. That's what he wants."

Cartman snickered to himself. It was quite the feat, how Cartman could laugh so malicious; so without mirth.

It should be noted that although these guys separated themselves from the 'main crowd', they were not necessarily outcasts. All right, maybe a little, but they didn't interact with the others in a Jets-n-Sharks way. If, however, there was any hostility between them and the rest of their year, surely Cartman was to blame.

The rest of the classes were a little better. Kenny did visit most of them, Cartman did none. When the day was over Kenny shot out like a bullet from a barrel, on his way before anyone, especially Cartman, could catch up with him and see where he was heading.

He wasn't quick enough, because soon he found he was being followed. Hot on his heels, calling out to him, was his first-period savior, Wendy Testaburger.


	3. It's such a sad book

_Chapter two: It's such a sad book_

_AN: If I don't post it now, I'll be in mortal kombat with this particular chapter forever. So here: 2211 words.  
I promised myself I'd never crack down on my writing skills or a particular chapter in author's notes, no matter what, so I won't._

_A big, stellar-sized 'thank you' to all of you who have read this so far. I'm trying so hard to bring you chapters of agreeable quality, and you probably deserved better than this. Just take my word for it as I say that I still appreciate the living daylight out of each and every one of you._

_

* * *

_

Yes, Kenny knew that there was no way that speeding up his pace would actually save him from the encounter. No, this didn't stop him from trying. All the same, soon he was turned by his shoulder and staring in big, hazel eyes.

"Okay, what d'you want?"

Wendy's voice was covertly triumphant. "I went by the principal's office. Seems like you've been getting yourself in a lot of spots over the years."

Kenny didn't bat an eyelash. "Looking for a response, or just showing off what you know?"

"Just saying. When you didn't show up they were going to have you suspended," she paused, awaiting the rebuke that never came, "...but don't worry. I... smoothed things over for you."

"Jolly," Kenny felt his chest slacken. "And you followed me here just to tell me that?"

This offended Wendy. More than it should have. "I wasn't _following_ you," she backed, "I'm on my way to drop off some forms at the shelter."

His hair cast a shadow over his dolent eyes. Like ostriches did his hands dig into pockets as the stranger turned around and away.

Wendy needed little time to conclude. "You're going to the shelter too, huh?" She couldn't help a shadow of delight over Kenny's shameful moment. She had him now. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

They paraded in sepulchral silence. Wendy was dogging the footsteps, repeatedly attempting the boy to speech: When a gust through his jacket caused him to shiver, she was there to comment. "You should have dressed warmer."

No response.

"You look hungry," she tried again, "did you even eat lunch?"

That one was on the money. Kenny jolted around, growling. "No, all right, I haven't. I _never_ have lunch."

"Oh," Wendy stared down. "I've got a sandwich left. Do you want it?"

Of course, that did only decrease the boy's disposition. "What do I look like to you? A beggar on a street corner?" And while this _should_ be sufficient to shut a normal person up, we know Wendy wasn't silenced that easily. If anything, the snap only caused her to redouble her efforts: "It's just a sandwich. I'm not hungry, anyway. No big deal."

They came up to the South Park shelter. Funded by the community, South Park's lesser citizens could rely on it for a scarce boost in provisions. That isn't to say, however, that the aid it handed out was any sort of useful. In fact, Kenny could drop dead right on their floors they wouldn't have a clue. The place was build for donators and volunteers. So their sanctimonious asses could indulge in nights of princely sleep.

He gulped. The barren walls were mocking him, just like the last time. Shifting from one leg to the other, he waited for the single clerk to finish putting scraggly signatures on Wendy's bundle of forms. He approached the boot, gave the attendee a single nod, and saw him sped off to the back.

The man returned with a small package. Kenny accepted it, keeping it close to the heart.

"What's in there?" Wendy asked.

"Mind your own business."

Right about there, Wendy got riled up. "That's it," she stated, and thumped the villain on the shoulder. "Snap out of it. Whatever your problem is, it doesn't give you the right to have a go at anybody that tries to be helpful."

True. But what, Wendy, gives you the right to be helpful? Why should Kenny, gladly and willingly, accept his part as the charity case? You mean well, sure, but have you ever stopped and wondered what you imply him to be- hopeless, faithless and desperate. And if you have, how could you expect him, even now, to respond in any other way than he did: rubbing the sore spot, shooting a cold glare?

Maybe you should have a look on the other side...

What suddenly drove her to be so persistent? Why now, why today? It was puzzling as it was chagrining. Kenny's only hunch was the building they were at: Breeding these pushy, would-be Samaritans with its backyard charity.

In his depart, and oh how quickly he departed, he painstakingly swore never to show up here again, but knew full well that he would. He didn't like it, but nowhere else would hand out these things without a proper prescription. Besides, heading by the shelter was a ritual that his brother once performed piously.

He held the package closer as home came near. _Home_- such a funny word for it. Can walls of orphan grime really pass as a house? May a cardboard graveyard with rusted kin be called a garden? If you'd ask him, the place that held his bed was a chain. Where the sun would fry and the gale would sting. Where biting sentences and the whiplash of poverty's perfume boiled the tenant down to what he was meant to be: solitary, spiteful and wasted.

Yes, that can be a home. Home is where the heart cries.

Inside, the weight of his father was camping out on the torn couch. The creaking door tore him from his whiskey dreams just long enough to acknowledge his son.

"Oh h-hey Kenny. What's for dinner?"

Kenny gritted his teeth. "I d'nno. Guess I'll run for some noodles in a bit. Gonna check up on sis first."

He was not here for him. Every child knows the woe of parents: You can't change them; you can only become like them. And as a McCormick, you better pray you don't turn into the folks that spawned you.

There was only one thing that kept him coming back. It wasn't a plight; It was an ambition. It was the one part of his world he would still salvage before his collapse.

And it was lying in her bed, getting into a book.

"Hiya Ka. How's things?."

"Kenny," Karen coughed, and a smile tugged at her pale face. Beset by miserable walls, the girl's skeletal features would have you imagine a glimpse into her crypt, ready to lay sardonically bright flowers at her feet.

Kenny pulled up a rickety chair and sat down. He patted his sister's leg under the blanket. "Wow, you're looking better every day."

"You think so?" Karen asked, laying down _Les Misérables _and facing her visitor.

"Oh yeah! You must be healthy already. I bet you're just faking to get out of school, aren't you?"

He chuckled when the petite figure shook her head fiercely, strands of mousy brown hair swatting against her face. The elder unwrapped the package, which contained several flasks and a plastic spoon. "Got you more medicine," he said, and started pouring a viscous fluid onto the spoon.

Seeing this, Karen clasped her lips together tightly, grinning defiantly at her brother.

"Come on," Kenny prodded her with the spoon

"No," Karen murmured through clenched teeth. "I don't want to. It's too sweet"

Kenny gave a frustrated sigh, setting his free hand into his side. He never tasted the medicine he had been giving her, but seriously doubted it was as bad as she made it out to be. "Do you want to go back to school? You have to take this if you want to become a smart girl."

"You take it then. You're the one that has to graduate."

"I _am_ going to graduate."

"Really?" Karen cried out. When she opened her mouth her brother tried to jam the plastic past her lips, but sis proved too fast to be spiked with the liquid.

"Yeah," Kenny claimed. "I'll pass those exams no problems."

The lie didn't fool her. Kenny could feel her disappointment as his own when her face fell and a dejected shadow, more familiar than desperation should ever be, crept in her eyes.

But Kenny cracked out a smile. Putting on a mask came as natural to him as breathing. "Tell you what," he offered cheerfully, "I'll have a spoon first, and then you go."

Karen lifted up and, hesitantly, nodded. Kenny put the spoon to his mouth and sucked the medicine out of it, letting its syrupy texture swish on his tongue. Sure enough it hit him, and both his hands pulled into fists, his knuckles turning a seething white against his ashen fingertips.

"Gross, isn't it?" Karen asked. She didn't know that it wasn't the _taste_ of the medicine that sickened him.

Kenny forced himself to a calm. "You're right," he told her. "This is disgusting. You don't have to take it."

Leaving a confused look on his sister's face, he let the spoon fall through his fingers, straight to the murky floor, then stomped out of the room.

* * *

Although Kenny still felt a ghost of affection for the man that gave him his first beer, his throbbing truth remained that the best Stuart was a sleeping Stuart. Even at his stage of decay, McCormick senior still got into more trouble than he was worth. Instead of drunken brawls, Kenny could spend his time worrying about groceries, dinner, his sister and his mother, Carol McCormick, who was working the weekdays after finally managing to keep hold of a job.

Not much of a job, mind you. But enough to keep the wolves at bay.

For now.

Emerald night came far too soon, taunting him. Kenny was leaning over a boiling pot of noodles, testing their edibility. "Dad, can you bring Karen her food?" he called out to his father, who was yet to move an inch.

"Son, if she's hungry enough, she'll come down and get it 'erself."

"She's ill, dad. Just give her some goddamn chow. Is that so hard?"

Uttering something about disrespecting your elders, his father got up, walking with legs that did a poor job supporting him. Kenny handed him a plate filled to the brim. It would be half-devoured by the time it made its way upstairs.

He succeeded in feeding his parents and himself, and thought he might even have time to catch up on his homework. But by the time he got upstairs, his sister pleaded on him again.

"Hi," Karen chirped as Kenny entered her room.

"Hey Karen," he spoke, patient as ever, "how are you?"

"I'm cold," she stated.

"Of course you are," Kenny explained, "That's all the bacteria inside your body dieing. Soon you'll be top-notch."

"I hope so," Karen stated. She picked up her book from the nightstand and prodded him with it. "Read this to me?"

Kenny batted the book away. "Can't mom do it?"

"She says she's tired. And you're a better storyteller."

"But does it have to be this one? It's such a sad book..." Kenny argued in vain: Apart from shelter-issued textbooks, the McCormicks didn't keep anything literary around. And besides, _Les Miserables_ was Karen's favorite story. The bookwas easily her most prized possession. Kenny knew this, as he had bought it for her with the meager wage of his weekend job.

"Please?" Karen begged, puppy-eyes and everything. It was enough to crack him. Leaving his homework for another night, he began to read where Karen had left off.

Once the girl drifted away, Kenny, as a rudimentary habit, crossed her, and laid the book back on the nightstand. As he left the bedroom, he took the bottle of medicine with him, nearly crushing the plastic in his hand, and jotted to the bathroom. There he opened it and let the gushy substance slip down the drain, all the while swearing under his breath.

Birch syrup.

They'd been handing out a placebo.

Have you ever had the feeling of being powerless? The horrific sensation of seeing everything that matters waste away, with nothing you can do stop it? You might find yourself trying to stop the sun from setting, the leaves from falling, or banishing nightmares with your bare hands. You might even find yourself shedding your tears, realizing there is only one way to stop that feeling: Giving up.

Imagine feeling this way for five dragging years. Understand what it would be like to set your whole heart, or whatever was left of it, onto a person, then having her slip away before your eyes. Imagine jagged fangs on your chest when you put on a smile of glass, telling her that everything is going to be all right, knowing damn well it won't be. Realize that's what it would be like, fooling her with happy fairytales and bittersweet lullabies, trying to picture the happy ending you know will not happen.

So now ask yourself, Wendy, how could you claim you understood? It never was about Kevin's letter, or the weight it imposed on Kenny's malnourished stomach. There wasn't a burning desire to change for the better, nor a misplaced urge to prove himself. There was only one truth; one constant; one thing that Kenny McCormick knew for sure:

Something would have to change.

And it would.


	4. Out of the K hole

_Chapter Three: Out of the K-hole_

_AN: 2,312 words. I realized I'm failing heavily with this, mostly because the whole thing has become a dirt-colored smoothie of plot-elements clinging together with sellotape. It's my own fault. I've been fragmenting this thing ad infinitum, and now I can't put the pieces together. It digests like the lyrics to a 36 Crazyfists song, so don't force yourself into reading it if it doesn't make sense to you. I'm only writing these updates to discipline myself._

* * *

_Kenny,_

_I can't blame you for hating me right now. I've let you down, I suppose. I swear I wanted to give you a headsup, but things kinda spiraled out of control. Porsche's pregnant, and we had to move away before her parents got wind of it._

_Ah hell Ken, I know I can't ever explain myself through a letter. I'm still me. Retarded, heckling Kevin tripping over his own two feet. I can't string together a decent sentence for the life of me, so how would I ever draft something touching enough to make this up to you?_

_Don't toss this down the chute yet, because I want you to see something. I want you to look at our parents and the place we grew up in, and see a future._

_Can you see it?_

_I know I couldn't._

_You realize you don't owe them anything, don't you? You didn't ask to be the son of a redneck and his inbred wife, and you shouldn't have to pay for their faults. They made their choices, just like I made mine, and just like you must make your own._

_Make the right ones._

_I've escaped. I'm renting an appartment right now, and am halfway to buying my very own Land Rover. Do you remember when you were ten, and all you ever wanted was one of them cars? I want you to have one, Kenny. Believe me when I tell you that I always was, and still am, looking out for you._

_Wear your wounds like stars. They're the only real thing you will gain from your sacrifice._

_Love,_

_Your brother._

_PS: I no longer go by Kevin McCormick. Do not expect to find me._

* * *

It might have been, Kenny registered, a nice night for a walk. The stars were out, and the late breeze was calming, not chilling. He had passed the stocks just now. The old railroad that led to nowhere, crashing somewhere in the mountains.

The crickets faltered as he bend to lift a rock from the grass, weighing it in his hand. With a nod he pocketed it and continued on his way. He wondered what people might think if they'd see him passing their well-heated homes. Would they lock up their daughters? The idea lit a guilty sense of worth in his gut.

The dirt stooped upwards. Involuntarily, he imagined what Cartman would be doing right now. Burying his face in a Cheetos bag, probably. Most likely while getting his pudgy hands all over an XBox controller that was brand new only yesterday.

Kenny could genuinely hate the fatass sometimes. He hated him for being able to treat everybody like shit and get away with it. He hated him for somehow ending up as his best friend. But most of all, he hated him for being right. Right about the world; about being feared over being liked; about the only real justice being the justice you take.

He reached the top of the hill. There was the shelter, unlit by the nickel moon. He could peer over most of the houses from here, but the concrete cube still loomed over him, cold and spiteful.

The windows were dark. Kenny knew the volunteers would've left by now. There was no alarm system. He could smell the northern winds being carried over the mountaintops. Somewhere in the distance, a dog started barking.

"Time to settle the score, bastards," he whispered to the stone.

Then he threw it through the window.

The impact was like a bombshell, far louder than he had ever expected. It almost had him haul ass on the spot, but with his anger-fueled willpower could he suppress that urge. Artificial confidence his tyrant, he struggled through the crumbling window, and found himself inside the medicine cabinet.

Trying to read labels in total darkness is tough, especially with the distress causing spots to swim before your eyes. His sweating hands wouldn't keep hold of a flask for more than a few heartbeats. He paced up, and down; up (he started raiding the shelves on the other end), and down.

This wasn't going to work. He bit the bullet, and allowed himself to turn on the light.

More aware, but no less nervous, he resumed his search. _Anything that says 'pain-relieving',_ he told himself. Kenny's knowledge of medicine was minimal, and it's considerably harder to recall the meaning of 'analgesic' under pressure.

It seemed like hours before he found the loot he needed. Bottles in hand, he would now be ready to climb back out.

If it wasn't for the sound of a turning key.

Every muscle froze solid. Panting against the back of the wall he stood as footsteps drew closer, drawn to the kindled bulb above him. When a call of "who's there?" wasn't answered, they paced up. Kenny ordered himself to climb out, but his legs wouldn't answer his beck anymore. He instinctively shut his eyes as the door swung open, throwing his arms in front of his face.

"Stand where you are," the voice was unwavering, with a convincing dominance, but also a deep familiarity, "and don't try anything. I've got a black belt in Judo."

The convict lowered his arms and slit slightly down the wall. It was then that his captor realized who she had caught. "_You?_" she blurted out.

Kenny's eyes swam back into focus, and found the breath returning to his lungs. "Wendy!" he uttered, and for a moment fear turned into disbelief. "You're a blackbelt?"

"What on earth are you doing here?" she demanded. But when she noticed the many bottles strewn across the floor, she answered her own question. Mouth hanging wide-open, she pointed at him. "You're on drugs!"

"What? No!" Kenny raised his arms as to shield himself, then noticed he was still holding a flask in each hand. "... It's not what it looks like."

Wendy slapped her forehead. "Do you think I'm stupid- Of course it is! They rob shelters for this stuff all the time, and then I catch _you_ here. Red-handed with two bottles of _ketamine_, for crying out loud."

"They're not for me," Kenny rushed the flasks to his front pocket. "This is medicine for," he hitched mid-sentence, the word 'sister' sliding back in his throat, "... a friend."

"_That's even worse!_" Wendy revolted. "I've got the headsup on Special K. Did you know date rape can get you up to twenty years in _prison_?"

"Special K?" That was harsh. Date rape? Did she really think he would- "wait, I wouldn't know the first thing about that- I just read the labels."

Wendy swatted his hands down with her own. "Hand me the bottles, Ken." She was barely five feet away from him now. Kenny could feel her breath on his face like dragonfire.

"NO!" Kenny reclaimed control of his body and slammed it against the wall, causing the balance of the adjacent rack to fail. It toppled over, threatening to crush the unfortunately placed girl. Wendy only barely managed to throw herself out of the way, diving to the floor as bottles rained down in an ear-splitting orchestra of glass and plastic.

Kenny rebound to his feet easily, jumped over the fallen shelves and through the door Wendy left ajar. He stepped into the parlor and could already spot the freedom beyond the glass shelter door.

He grazed the handle with shaking hands and tried the damn thing to open. The blood drained from his face as he concluded Wendy had locked it. For critical seconds he scoured through the lobby, feverishly scanning the desks for something heavy. He knew, from experience, never to jump through glass yourself. Forget the movies: the blow _will_ kill you.

He almost had his fingers wrapped around an old radio when a weight rammed into his side, throwing him down on his stomach. In the split-second of his drop he registered that Wendy, who was plunging down with him, had latched firmly to his feet.

He kicked savagely, trying to break free from the hold. Wendy's persistence was unrivaled. Not even when a shoe spiked into her stomach did her hands slow in their way upwards. She crept to the straggler's knees, then legs, then thighs. Finally, like a hysterical turtle, Kenny was turned on his back.

"_All right_," Kenny chafed at his restraints, "all right. So I'm doing drugs. Happy now?"

"_No I'm not_," Wendy heaved, her usually peach features an alarming purple. She groped beneath herself and took the bottles from her catch's front pocket. "You could have killed me back there! What if that rack had hit me, huh?"

"Would've served you right. The hell are you coming down here for, anyway?"

"I just finished these new forms and wanted to deliver them so tomorrow morning we could..." she halted, "... you know what? None of your business."

Kenny kept silent.

"There are other ways," Wendy lifted herself, but still eyed her catch for signs of escape. She paced backwards to flip the light switch. "There's people out there who can help you- who _want_ to help you- if only you let them."

"I bet they would," Kenny grunted. "So now what, Miss Righteous? Gonna make a citizens arrest? Clap me in irons?"

Wendy looked very much like she wanted to strangle him. "Will you _please _drop your McMurphy act for _Five. Goddamn. Seconds_? Don't you realize everybody thinks it's fucking pathetic?" Her eyes shot fire at Kenny, whose 'I-don't-care' expression was not convincing in the least. "Now. Let's talk about this."

"Go ahead. Talk is cheap." said Kenny, calmer now.

"Not this one. This one's gonna cost you. Robbing drug storages? Attempted womanslaughter? They should lock you up and throw away the key!" For the first time, Wendy's backlash made contact with Kenny's face, which hadn't been up to par with its usual rigor. Seeing this, the judgess softened. "But frankly, I don't want to see that happen. So why don't you and I cut a little midnight deal?"

"You're getting me to bribe you?" Kenny had trouble not to snort. "Doesn't that go against your ethics or something?"

"I allow myself the occasional 'wrong thing for the right reasons'," Wendy countered. "It's the price of ambition, having to play dirty sometimes." Despite the severity, the girl plastered on a teensy smile. "We all have our shelters to rob, as it were."

Kenny shuddered. He could see a thousand outcomes, each one more terrible than the last, on being the guinea pig of Wendy Testaburger's 'ambition'. Still he couldn't help himself in asking: "What d'you have in mind?"

"Thank you," said Wendy. "Now, I see no reason to tell anybody about your little slip-up tonight. I don't have a firsthand account on prison rape, but have on good standing that it's quite the messy affair. So, I propose I'll let you walk away this time and in return, I get to have my way with you."

"Your _way_?"

Wendy nodded. "Figure of speech. I'm talking rehabilitation here. I want to run a strict and custom tutorship tailored to _you, _so that _you_ won't be another bum leeching off our welfare system. For this, I expect your co-operation, discipline, and total obedience."

"Sounds like there's gonna be handcuffs after all."

There was another foul look. These came by the dozen, it seemed. "Joke all you want. But right now, your options are abysmal- as is your attitude. I can pull you out of the K-hole. Better grades, high school diploma, the works. The choice should be easy: Me, or juvenile hall."

It _should _be an easy choice. Maybe that was the problem. "You know what? I think I'll take my chances with the prison rape."

Wendy sighed and let her arms go limp. Kenny swore he could read her thoughts as she structured her next assault. _So harsh a spirit; I will enjoy breaking it._

"_Still_ intent on being the bad guy then? ... pity. Still, I wonder how long that chapter will last once people hear you got pinned down by a girl."

Can you blame him for being caught off-guard? Can you blame him for snapping? "Are you in fucking sixth grade? I've got bigger problems to deal with than what..."

"- If that is indeed the case," Wendy fished a small key out of her pocket and dropped it at his feet, "then by all means, leave."

He picked up the key and held it close to his face so it was nothing but a silver blur. Past it, Wendy's piercing eyes stood razor-sharp.

He was right. It _was_ the most ridiculous threat he had heard all... ever. That was the beauty of it, because nevertheless it was spot-on. Wendy had seen right through him. Past his brittle clothing and opal skin, and into his need to be a fake. She had him caught for what he was. He didn't know how, or why she had given chase in the first place, but she had.

Either way his fate was grim. He was still powerless. Nothing had changed.

"My house. Tomorrow, 7 PM."

He let out an audible sigh as he stepped through the doorway. Perhaps he'd never know what drove her. But at least now, he could try to find out.

"I hope you know what you're getting yourself into," Kenny omened as he closed the door behind him.

Stumbling out into the darkness, he heard her whisper. Softly. He may have imagined it altogether.

"So do I."


	5. You're rather complex, for a guy

_Chapter four: You're rather complex, for a guy_

_AN: 3702 words. What to say, what to say. I never knew I could have such intense battles with the English language before, but it just goes to show. Now I'm back with a vengeance, and with the holiday in my eye I shall aim to have the next chapter up sooner. If anybody is still with this story (difficult, I can tell by the echo), please accept this chapter along with my eternal, non-transferable thanks._

* * *

The subsequent night of sleep was an uneasy one. The playmates that were recurring characters in Kenny's dreams all had their faces contorted to that of Wendy. As such, the unfortunate boy spend the night fending off twelve bunny-eared feminists acting very much like they were on Ketamine, which was more disturbing than it was arousing.

Luckily, when the five-thirty gust came and served as the metaphorical splash of cold water, he had already forgotten all about the dream.

Alone again in his living room, he waited for Cartman to come pick him up. Kenny doubted if the car ride was worth the fifteen minutes of psychopathic abuse, but this particular best friend wasn't a booger you could just thump off. There he was, bashing right through the door and – _oh god he's got a knife_.

"Cartman, _what the_..." Kenny demanded as Cartman flicked the blade. Apart from looking dangerous, its nickel grip was touched up with the Gothic engraving of a heart. Its design perfectly matched the skull rings Cartman called 'jewelry', but we know served as knuckle-dusters.

"Isn't it _kewl_?" Cartman asked. "Lola gave it to me."

"Your girlfriend gave you a switchblade?" Kenny racked his head. "That's just... wrong." But he knew his friend too well to bother explaining. This was what Eric did. A perfect man-at-arms, bred for the bad side of town.

"Just so you know," Cartman picked up as he revved the car, "the four of us are going to Raisins next week."

"What? No dude, I can't. Karen's declining."

Cartman spiked up the gas. "Don't lie to me termite. You've been using that excuse for weeks. No, _months_."

Kenny snorted. "Have you considered that maybe I don't want to make public appearances with Mussolini's retarted nephew. I have a reputation, you know." The mention of this left a pinch in his stomach, and Kenny fell silent, spilled medicine invading his mind like an overdue hangover.

Cartman didn't notice. "Seriosuly Ken, why are you such an asshole all the time?"

Hypocrisy had always been a forte of Cartman. His stint on Weight Watchers proved as much. Kenny just scowled. "Screw Raisins, that's why! Why not hit Denver and find bitches that will actually let us touch them."

Cartman laughed. "Ain't no such bitch in the world, my friend. Not until you can afford some fucking soap."

They parked the car and walked up to the school.

"Now I know you don't have any money, so it's my treat this time. But you _better _not get used to it. From now on, freeloaders get stabbed." He presented the knife once more. Kenny squirmed.

"And that includes cigarettes. You got that? I'm sick of you leeching of me like some jewish..." Cartman paused mid-sentence- Kenny had vanished. He looked around confused, not so much for the orange blob as for anything to insult. It came within mere seconds, in the form of an approaching girl with a pink beret.

In the school hallways, Kenny had bumped full-force into Craig, who was already marked by a 7-AM-cigarette scent. The boy in black was, though the casual eye would never notice, overloaded with excitement.

"Oh Jesus, Kenny, did you miss something." He smacked his lips, coal jeans flapping around his ankles. "Oh sweet, merciful lord and savior did _you. miss. something_. They'll be talking about this for years, I promise you."

Kenny glanced nervously over his shoulder. "Spit it out or hit the road, Craig,"

"All right, check this," Craig pulled Kenny next to him and got his cellphone to play a specky recording. A skirt which, by the deliberately uncomfortable chair backs of detention hall, was lifted to reveal a pink strip in-between two skin-colored mounds.

"That's it?" Kenny raised his brow, "that's your great moment? A recording of Millie's asscheeks? What the fuck's the matter with you?" He thumped Craig's shoulder and pulled away from the huddle.

Point five megapixel. That was all Kenny needed to put a name to an ass. Craig, not impressed, hushed him and pulled him back.

The camera shifted to Craig's lap, where lay a bright red tube with a fuse prodding out. A lighter was pushed against it, producing a flame with a single flick. The phone emanated a grungy kind of noise as the video turned to a blur. The last thing Kenny picked up was a spot of red flying low past desk-like shapes and through a doorway, finished by a pang and an hysterical wail.

"So," Craig was grinning five rows of teeth, "slick, huh?"

Kenny's face didn't commit, though a ghost of a smile was noticeable. "Who was that screaming bloody murder?"

"Heidi Turner, dude. Thing said 'bang' right at her feet and it startled her to _tears._ No jokes."

"Did they catch you?"

Craig shook his head before letting it drop. "I am sorry to say they didn't. I'll have to land

new detention some other way."

"Hey Ki-nny- whatcha watchin'?"

Kenny jumped three feet when the girl's voice addressed him. Relax, Ken. It's only Rebecca, with her voice so drawlingly coy and cherry, not shrill and demanding.

"Lemme see," Red asked. There was no reply, only a blank stare. "Oi, my eyes are up here!"

"I'll take your word for it," Kenny replied, at which Red huffed and turned away.

"She digs me."

"Totally."

* * *

Like usual, the day's classes were dreadful. Mr Locke, who still left the competition eating his dust in the rally for most hated teacher, had decided to disagree with the principal on her given punishment, and that an afternoon of detention would be in order. And so, at three-fifteen, while torrents of teens trampled each other to get home, Kenny was left pushing against the grain to get to detention hall up on first floor, aka Death Row. He thought of Karen. Maybe, hopefully, she wouldn't wake up before he got home.

Barely in sight of the class he already got to the first commotion. Craig, of the specked recordings and self-idolizing badassry, was slowly shrinking to a puddle, all the while pleading and clinging to the suspenders of a very stern-faced teacher. "There's no way. I _have _to have detention today. I need to be disciplined."

But the teacher was relentless. "You're not on the list, so I can't let you in."

"Please sir," Craig begged, "please. I know I can better myself. I know I can. Please don't give up on me like all the others."

"Oh chrissake Craig, grow up." Behind him a girl hissed and tapped her feet, hair so blonde it hurt and a hip-to-waist ratio in the triple digits: Bebe Stevens.

Kenny nodded to the pair of them and walked past. Craig dripped off in defeat, Bebe followed Kenny into the classroom and took an adjacent seat. "So what are you in for, champ?"

"Harassment," Kenny fantasized. "Total bullshit. She came on to me first."

Bebe chuckled. "But of course. What stuck-up bitch would say no to _you_, aye?"

And for a moment they shared a silent look, just before, as irony would have it, _she_ made her entrance.

"Wendy!" Bebe called, happy by default. "What are you doing here? You're not on the list."

Wendy raised an eyebrow. "You mean the roll-call list that's locked away in a desk and strictly forbidden for students to look at?"

"That's the one," Bebe smiled. "Oh don't give me that look. Students deserve to know which of their peers are a bad influence," she glanced sideways at Kenny, who was staring at the both of them. He never could grasp how those two had been best friends all these years. But then again, he never understood how he and Cartman ended up together either.

"No doubt," said Wendy. "Do you mind? I was actually here to have a few words with Kenny."

"Oh, that sounds _important_. I shall humbly shut up."

Wendy leaned in and started talking in tones hushed and furtive. "I couldn't help but feel you were avoiding me, so I wanted to double-check you wouldn't 'forget' our agreement. I'm still expecting you at my house at eight PM sharp, well-fed, well-clothed and well-smelling. You will have with you your history and trigonometry books, and a free schedule up till ten-thirty at least, at which time I will offer you an option of snacks, soda and smalltalk."

Kenny sat frozen, taking it in and scanning for loopholes. "How'd you get past checkpoint Charlie anyway?" He pointed at the teacher, who was currently barking at a freshman and batting his ruler and enjoying the hell out of it.

"I have my ways. What I also wanted to set straight with you was your snack preference. I'd like you to at least _pretend _to be happy for all the hours you're stuck with me."

"Anything not past expiration's fair game," Kenny spat. He wasn't planning to play along with any of her games. No matter how small, she wouldn't get anymore victories.

Wendy finally left a good forty minutes later, now bearing the McCormick family tree with favorite pastime refreshments of twelve generations and, admittedly, victory.

"What was that all about?" Bebe asked curiously as Kenny slackened in his desk.

"Tits," he said curtly. "What else?"

He was grouchy all the way home and because of it, he may have jumped the gun when he got to his house. At the McCormick dinner table, all his family members were seated around the table. And this included the youngest of the set, Karen.

Concluding the worst, Kenny went straight for his father's throat. "What the hell? Way to fuck things up, dad." His father just peered at him, through them same old liquor curtains, nonplussed. "You _know _Karen's unwell, and you _still_ made her come down just because you were too _god-damn lazy_ to climb _one_ set of stairs?" he raised his arms, near-disgusted.

Stuart finally realized he was being shouted at. "Oi, only your mother can take that tone, got that? And I didn't make 'er do nothing. She came down 'erself, aint that so?"

Carol nodded. Kenny's eyes shifted too Karen, and he softened. "Dammit, Ka. You are supposed to stay in bed 'til you feel better."

"I _do _feel better," Karen threw in. "When you said I wouldn't have to take that stuff anymore, that helped."

She said this most earnestly. _Reverse placebo_, Kenny thought, and he wondered if his sister could be lying. "All the more reason to take it easy. Turnabout can go either way."

"_No," _Karen's voice turned loud and shrill. "How can I take it easy when we're already struggling to get by? All I hear is that we 'need money to help Karen', and I hate it! You just have to stop worrying so much about me, all right? I can't take it anymore."

And then Kenny knew that she was speaking the truth. She was still fading, but it wasn't physical no more. Mentally, that's where she was growing worse. He could tell from the stardust on her cheeks.

Kenny sighed. "Fine then. But I leave at eight, and you better be asleep before that."

* * *

Humans, as a species, are not logical. We plot and make priorities and think about the stupid stuff we'd never do, then toss it straight out the window when our renegade brain feels like it.

Take, for example, Kenny on his way to the Testaburger household. He had, like many of us often do, promised himself beforehand he had enough to worry about, and that he wasn't allowing himself any irrational fears this night. Still, walking there in the snow, he was twiddling his thumbs at the thought of a certain event: Facing Mr. Testaburger

Judging by his daughter, odds were he would meet a respectable, tie-wearing gent, nothing like his own dad. And honestly, he just couldn't deal with that first impression, the one he was all too familiar with. The foul look; the wrinkling nose; that awkward greeting as fatherly alarm bells would make him think one thing only: _I'm not letting you anywhere near my daughter._

He needn't have worried, however. Wendy would later reveal that her parents got divorced a few years ago, and her mother was always on the night shift these days. For now, she was home alone, greeting her guest with an amused twinkle in her eye. "Well I'll be. Look what the cat dragged with."

Kenny chaffed. "only street rats, I'm sure," he said, careful as he walked into this, in his mind, spotless home.

With Wendy's help, he shrugged off his jacket and pack, then followed the hostess into her living room where he was gestured to the couch, Wendy taking place on an old armchair herself. Sitting down, the first thing he noticed were the paper cartons with foreign lettering, invitingly spread out on the coffee table in front of him. Chinese takeout, catching his attention with the seasoned smell of meatballs and cardboard.

"Go ahead," Wendy said by means of explanation. "Just in case you, you know, didn't have time to eat at home."

Kenny looked at the food with a hundred Celsius in his eyes. The silence was prolonged, tilting into a noodle-flavored staredown of sorts. Finally Kenny ripped open the first of the cartons, seemingly hating himself for it. "Fine then," he said. "But for a girl, you're not really subtle."

"And you're rather complex, for a guy."

It wasn't long until our starving boy was finished with the Chinese. He resisted habitually wiping his hands on the couch and instead accepted a tissue from Wendy, who now rested her chin in her hands, trying to stare into him as deep as she could. "So," she opened with a frown, "what's in it for you..."

Kenny let the tissue pass his lips before tossing it with the empty cartons. "Whatcha mean?"

"Well you're not here because you want to, that much is clear. So, in your own words, why are you?"

Kenny's eyes tore away and started darting around the room. The stern tapestry, the abstract paintings, the couch he was sitting on. All was modern, streamlined like turbojets or the knick-knacks you find at hospitals. Meant to be practical, not comfortable. No warmth, at least not on the outside.

He answered her bitingly. "Well, you were gonna make my life livin' hell if I didn't, weren't you?"

Wendy looked away, a little embarrassed. "I was afraid you'd say that," and with little prelude she added, "I'm the bitch, right?"

"Your words, not mine."

"It's all right," she assured, "I am. It's just that," she paused, "I think I have more going for you than you may think. I wonder if I can convince you of that."

"Go ahead. Not like I'm going anywhere," Kenny said, insinuating and with a hint of dare. He was drawing her out now, waiting for his chance to plug the knife.

"Let's paint a little picture," Wendy adjusted herself more upright in her seat, "What I'm seeing is a lot of rust. So much of it actually, I can almost smell it. It's like, an old folks home metal or something," Kenny huffed and rolled his eyes, but Wendy took little notice. "And in this garage, because that's what it is, we find a man. He's pretty young still, and would look rather handsome if it wasn't for all the tears and oil stains in his clothes. And this man is hard at work. Lifting and straining and getting his head smashed in by engine parts three times a week and all for just twenty-thousand yearly. Luckily, he doesn't mind that lead poisoning is perpetually killing his lungs and muscles because, in his own mind, he is a right total badass."

A short pause. "You know what I call this picture?" Wendy took in another lungful of air, "'best case scenario'."

She was finished, and Kenny genuinely couldn't control a mocking chuckle. "No way!" he grinned. "_That_ was the money shot? The old taco-bender story from Hollywood I've heard a million times since last weeks?"

Wendy kept rigid. "Yes. Only this time it's not a story," it was the way she said it that made the laughter stop. "Now you can either keep this up, have some broad carry your son and continue the cycle, OR you can decide to follow my lead and break out of it right now," she took to spreading her arms in a half-baked spoof of some modern messiah. It probably turned out more surreal than she'd wanted it to be. "It's time to make promises, and I'm making one to you now."

A silence came between them, and for defining seconds there was nothing but thought. Then Kenny's mouth opened again, quite abruptly. "What sets you apart?"

"Excuse me?"

"All those teachers, those tutors, the guys on TV. _They're _all claiming they will help me if I'm prepared to change, but I found out none of them know shit," Kenny was finding himself more and more engaged. "You've got a lot of sweet talk, but I want to know, what's your pitch? What have you got that all of them don't?"

"Ah," Wendy put a finger on her lips as her voice obtained an enigmatic flair, "the ace in the hole. Well you'll just have to wait and see, wont you?"

Kenny then saw something that hadn't been there earlier today. A necklace, the pendant of which was resting on her chest. It looked like a kind of flower, a waterlily perhaps, cast out in silver. Funny how he didn't notice it earlier.

"You know what," Kenny decided at long last, "I'm with you 'till I proof you a hack."

His agreement was met with a smile, warm and promising. "Good. That's more than I hoped for from you," Wendy said as she rose. As she got up, Kenny noticed her armchair was the only piece of vintage furniture the Testaburger's had, looking out of tone with the rest of the room. An heirloom perhaps?

"Now, time to get busy." She grabbed the old backpack, sat down on the couch and heaved out the first of the books.

As she was searching for the right page number Kenny started wondering again. "Hey Wendy?"

"Hmm?"

"What's in it for you?"

She flinched a little, losing track of the pages. However, she was quick to answer. "Doing the right thing is reward enough for me," she smiled serenely before adding, "hard to believe, huh?"

For Kenny, it was indeed. "But then, why me? I mean, there's plenty of starving Africans and little orphan girls that aren't total assholes to you. So then why you waste time hoisting jerks like me out of the trailer park?"

Wendy tapped her chin, intrigued and amused by Kenny's self-reflection. "Good question. Why do we fly to the moon?"

Kenny looked at her quizzically. "I dunno. 'Cause the Russians do?"

"Because we can," Wendy answered. "I mean, anyone can bring food to an African orphan, and there's plenty that do. But when it comes to, quote unquote, 'jerks like you', most prefer paying them some welfare booze to keep to themselves, because they're written off as stinking, uncivilized hillbillies who'd rather shoot beer cans with a sawed-off," she halted for a moment, just to see if the imagery she painted had hit home. "You're a challenge. A very smelly, but also rather fun, challenge."

"Wow," Kenny scratched his head, "all that for karmic masturbation then?"

"Well, I think it's worth it," Wendy concluded steadfastly, "I'll believe in you even if you don't."

You know, I think that even then, Kenny must have known that there was something you weren't telling him. Something small, something that wouldn't even have mattered should you have told it straight away. You know, about why you were doing this. Honestly I don't see why you needed to withhold that little detail. I mean, I get why, but I don't agree with it. It was just so starry-eyed for your doing. Too fairytaily.

It's good to see that it didn't bother you though. You could still sit close to him, enjoy the conditional trust he had placed in you and fulfill your misrepresented intentions without ever feeling guilty.

Seriously Wends, how could you?

It was ten-thirty rather quickly, and the teens could proudly say that they had spend their time working with maximum efficiency. At the end of it all, Kenny was actually thinking there may be hope for him yet, though he still felt rather squirmy at the notion.

"Guess that's it for tonight," said Wendy. "So, you feel like breaking open a bag of chips? Catch some nighttime programming?"

"Nah I'm fine," Kenny decided, then got second thoughts, "that wasn't a trick question, was it?"

"No," Wendy admitted, chewing her bottom lip. "It wasn't. You're free to go."

A bit reluctant she guided him out, fetching his coat and pack. They were already in the doorway before Wendy remembered something. "Oh, before you leave, you need to come see me during lunch tomorrow."

Kenny perked up and scowled. "Why?" he bit. "What for?"

Wendy smiled, not all to bothered by Kenny's anger at the prospect of lunchtime labor. She knew he'd be pissed, and she knew he'd show regardless. So she smiled. "You'll see."

Behind his back, Kenny flipped her off.


End file.
